


Shiny Things, Slightly Damaged

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, brief mentions of the negative psychological effects of the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22086220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: Harry may not ever have had to see it if McGonagall hadn’t decided it was a good idea to hold a ceremony on the grounds outside before the Sorting in the Hall. And by ‘it’ he’s referring to Draco Malfoy on a motorbike.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 99
Kudos: 1285





	Shiny Things, Slightly Damaged

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to julcheninred for the insightful and helpful beta! The idea for this little story came from when Shelly visited me back in September, and we saw someone (young man? old woman? That’s still up for debate.) riding a motorcycle down the road. They had shockingly blond hair and were (I think) in a leather jacket, etc. We decided then and there that Draco Malfoy on a motorbike needed to be the prompt for Shelly’s birthday fic. ;) So this is to my wonderful girlfriend on this her birthday, the year she becomes the answer to everything! I love you so very much, Shelly. This story does not do that love justice. But I hope you enjoy it anyway. Happy birthday, my love. ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> Freaking AMAZING aesthetic by Capitu (see end notes)!

Harry may not ever have had to see it if McGonagall hadn’t decided it was a good idea to hold a ceremony on the grounds outside before the Sorting in the Hall. 

And by ‘it’ he’s referring to Draco Malfoy on a motorbike. 

They hear it before they see it. They being, of course, Harry, Hermione, and Ron, who conveyed themselves back to Hogwarts through conventional travel methods, though sadly not by the Hogwarts Express. Ron had, legitimately this time, flown the Anglia, which McGonagall had let him park in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, for nostalgia’s sake. (The car’s nostalgia, not Ron’s.) Hermione had arrived by Apparition. Expedient. Very wizardly. Harry had flown his Firebolt Next Gen.

“What the—? Is that thunder?” says Ron. “Is it going to rain on us? Bloody great.”

“It’s not thunder,” says Hermione with that presage little frown of hers.

And then they see it. 

Black, a streak of silver along its side, it kicks up gravel on the road from Hogsmeade as it veers around a corner. It’s Muggle. No way that thing can fly. 

Malfoy rolls it, rumbling, guttering, up to the main gates and waits while they open, a booted foot steadying himself on the ground.

Almost everyone else has arrived and is milling about on the lawn between the castle and the Quidditch pitch, and everybody watches, whispering, as Malfoy rides in, engine purring. He manoeuvres the bike to the outskirts of the crowd, near the broom shed, killing the engine, dismounting. He draws his wand sharply, as though preparing to duel, only to flick a ward over the bike.

“Stupid git,” murmurs Ron. “He’s not even wearing a helmet. I hope he crashes and gets a concussion and forgets how to be a dick.”

“Ron,” Hermione chastises. Then, “He’s got a Protego on, or hadn’t you noticed.”

“Mmpph,” replies Ron. He looks at Harry, waiting for him to weigh in, and Harry realises belatedly that he hasn’t and should.

“He couldn’t stop being a dick if you Obliviated him,” Harry says, to Ron’s snorting assent.

Harry watches Malfoy approach, his leather jacket and trousers, his hair, catching the light of the bonfire that McGonagall insisted on lighting, some sort of new paganish tradition they’re expected to weather on top of the pageant of the Sorting and the feast.

Not that Harry has ever minded the feast. He would simply rather it come first in all this; he hasn’t eaten since noon.

Harry watches out of the corner of his eye as Malfoy finds his friends, the ones that returned—Parkinson, Zabini, Nott. That’s it. Someone laughs, mean-sounding. Parkinson snorts.

A couple of the professors are wrangling groups of younger children. Not the first years; they’re suitably petrified and standing in a board-stiff pod like this bonfire is their funeral pyre. It’s the second and third years that need corralling, and Sprout and Sinistra are doing their best to diffuse their chaos without deflating their enthusiasm altogether. 

Harry remembers the high of it, being back. He remembers—

“Gryffindorks. Abysmal to see you. I notice you’ve been unable to surgically remove yourselves from one another’s hips.” 

Malfoy. He’s wandered over. Harry determinedly does not look at him. Much.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” grouses Ron.

“Prime response, Weasley. Did you write that down earlier and stick it in your pocket so you’d remember? Simply stellar.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione sighs, “if the only reason you came back was to bastard up the place, well done.”

(Hermione, it must be noted, has taken on a new interest in swearing well. As in everything, she attempts to excel. Harry thinks ‘bitch up the place’ would have been more effective, though.)

“House points to Granger,” Malfoy sneers happily. “See, Weasley? Your girlfriend knows how to sling the mud—”

Ron turns on him then, and it’s up to Harry to hold him back from bodily slamming Malfoy into the ground. Obviously, Ron assumes an underhanded ‘Mudblood’ remark in there.

“It was a compliment, Weasel. Bloody hell.”

“Ron,” says Harry softly. “Stand down, mate.”

Ron does, with a huff. Though his pale skin has erupted with colour, beety, blotchy reds infusing the minimal space between freckles. 

Harry pats his shoulder and then turns a baleful eye on Malfoy. “Laying it on pretty thick, don’t you think?” 

“Thick is the only way I know how to lay it, Potter.” He pulls his riding gloves off with his teeth, sticking them into a back pocket and crossing his arms, the leather of his jacket squeaking quietly.

Harry scoffs. “Well, maybe you should think about pacing yourself so you don’t, you know, burn out before the first Hogsmeade trip. Wouldn’t want to be too exhausted to harass this new batch of eleven year-olds.”

Malfoy smirks and looks Harry in the eye. “Jealous?”

Harry’s opening his mouth to retort, his cheeks suddenly burning, when two things happen: Hermione gently touches his elbow—as ever the voice of reason even when not speaking—and McGonagall calls for everyone’s attention.

“Later, Scarhead,” Malfoy says in a lowered voice. Then, with a little salute to Ron and Hermione, “Hangers-on.” He saunters away, back to his group of plonker friends.

“Git,” Ron gets out between gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” Harry says, still watching Malfoy with a frown. Then, “Let’s just…” He gestures vaguely towards McGonagall with a sigh.

He’s hungry. They’re all hungry. Hell, maybe even Malfoy is hungry, Harry thinks.

And the food—once they’re inside the warm castle with their plates full in front of them, everyone happily (or at least tolerantly) Sorted—is even more delicious than Harry remembers. The war warped his memories, dampening even his most cherished, but now Harry finds himself delighting in every hot bite of roast, the absurd butteriness of the mashed potato, the tooth-aching sweetness of his beloved treacle tart.

It’s enough that he can ignore the stares from around the room, the constant murmur of whispers that carry his name, particularly from the youngest for whom he’s only legend rather than simply a very average, often a bit stupid, person. Sometimes very stupid.

A laugh from the Slytherin table makes him lift his gaze. Malfoy, still in riding leather (it isn’t super weird; the returning ‘eighth years’ can wear what they like, within reason, as a sort of privilege, but still), sweeps his hair back with one hand—it’s grown long enough in front to tickle his cheekbone—and then pops a truffle into his mouth, smiling around it at whatever Zabini’s saying.

His own food gone, Harry’s unease returns a bit. McGonagall’s speech had descended in tone to the bittersweetly morbid, remembering the people they’d lost and promising that the year would be one in which the ghosts, the portraits, and those gone through the Veil entirely would be proud. Harry’s not sure how proud he can make anyone, dead or alive. He really just wants to survive another year and not Troll in Herbology. He wants to disappear into the stonework and become blissfully unnecessary.

“May I?” a little girl asks quiveringly next to him, accompanied by a tentative tug at his sleeve, at which her companion whispers loudly, “Oh my God, Melanie, _you touched him!_ ” Melanie, it seems safe to assume, is holding up a chocolate frog card.

Dear God, it can’t possibly…

But it is. It’s him. He vaguely recalls his solicitor bringing him a couple of parchments to sign. Harry hadn’t really been paying attention to all the legal mumbo jumbo. He probably should have listened better.

He looks like a complete knob in his picture too.

Harry forces a smile and replies, “Do you have a quill?”

At this, both girls blanch.

“No bother,” he assures them, drawing his wand and hastily transfiguring his fork. He ignores it when one of them gasps. It’s the wandwork of a fifth year, but he decides not to prolong this encounter further by saying so. Hermione is already looking on with an expression of wry amusement. Ron’s outright snickering.

“There,” Harry says.

The girls look at his signature with wide eyes and then thank him, all glowing smiles. One, appallingly, curtsies.

“Shut it,” Harry mutters to Ron as the girls giggle their way back to the Hufflepuff table. Harry winds up doing a double take when his gaze wanders only to find Malfoy staring at him, an arch brow even archier. Harry frowns and drops his gaze, cursing the fact that he can feel his face heating up.

Back in the room he and Ron are to share, he’s restless. That feeling of coming back home… it’s there, but it’s… tender, like a bruise. This is not the room he shared with four other boys; this is a new room, better suited for what they are, that strange liminal territory between teen-aged and adult. They’re somehow both at once. The newer room with its built-in maturity, like a dormitory at university as opposed to a boarding school, reflects how they’ve changed. And yet Harry doesn’t feel much different than he did sixth year.

“You alright, mate?” Ron’s setting up his Cannons figurines along the top of his dresser.

Some things never change, and this makes Harry smile. “Yeah, just… I dunno…”

“Yeah,” Ron says, not placatingly, but as though he knows the words Harry can’t find and feels them in himself. “It’s a bit weird, right? Being back.”

They sit by the window and talk for a bit while they play a game of Exploding Snap. Then, about ten o’clock, Ron starts to get antsy. Harry knows why, but he waits for Ron to say it.

“Oi, Harry, would you mind very much if I…?” He jerks his thumb toward the door.

Harry smiles. “No, I’m just surprised you lasted this long.”

Hermione’s in a room by herself. Ron’s barely been able to conceal his excitement over this fact since they were given their rooming assignments a month ago via Owl. Hermione seems keen on it too, but she can veil her enthusiasm more successfully or pretend she’s just as happy about the peace and quiet as she is the freedom to shag Ron whenever they please.

When Ron bites his lip and seems reluctant to leave Harry alone, Harry begins flinging cards at him like little frisbees. “Go on,” he urges. “Stay the night if you want. I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Bloody hell, I’m not fresh out of Janus Thickey, I’m _fine_.”

(To be fair though, his Mind Healer does work in the ward.)

Ron, beaming like the dumb fucker in love that he is, fairly scrambles out of the room with a breathless, “Don’t wait up!”

Harry waves. “Give her my love!”

“Gross,” Ron hisses just before the door closes on his exit.

Harry sighs, looking around the room, like a miniature of the one they were in before. It’s quiet. They’re far from the younger ones, in a corner of the castle only recently refurbished for this very purpose. He contemplates an early night for a moment—he could rise before the sun and get a jump on his reading for Charms. 

Instead he takes a deep breath, slapping his hands down on his thighs as he stands and goes in search of the trainers he kicked off barely inside the room. He’s too tense to sleep. Fresh air is what he needs, he tells himself. Jacket flung on, he’s out the door.

Walking out the front of the castle, he inhales the cool night air. It’s not even autumn, but the breeze makes him want to shove his hands into his pockets. He walks through the courtyard, deserted at this hour. The eighth years (and professors, of course) are the only ones allowed to roam about without a curfew, as long as they don’t cause a ruckus. A ruckus. McGonagall’s word. Harry finds himself smiling as he walks across the lawn towards the gate. Thankfully, Filch doesn’t get to weigh in on what is or is not a ruckus. They’d all be strung up in what’s left of the dungeons for tiptoeing to the loo.

It’s a pretty night, clear, so many stars out you can see the band of them that make up their spiral arm. The gate creaks as he opens and closes it, and a hoot owl complains. Hogsmeade isn’t far. The walk will help him clear his head… exercise some of the tension from his hypervigilant muscles. He’s never walked to Hogsmeade without fear of a mad wizard attempting to kill him before. Not that another one couldn’t decide to try too, but… It’s nice. To not have to peer around every corner or suspect every shadow of every tree. Though Harry still does.

He wonders if he’ll ever stop. His Mind Healer says he will, mostly, with time and work.

Wandering through the town, it feels like the dark windows of shops are eyes watching him. The lamplights dust the road and leave smudges of shadows into even darker alleys.

Harry finds himself at the door to the Hog’s Head, one of the only businesses still open at this late hour, though the light from inside seems only from one or two defective lanterns. His hand rests on the solid, cold iron of the door handle, and the sign above squeaks a little as a soft breeze wafts by. He looks at his fist, taking a breath, then he tugs the door open and steps inside. 

It’s as dim and grey as when they had their first Dumbledore’s Army meeting here. There’s a barman of some advanced age, grizzly beard hiding an even grizzlier face, swabbing a glass with a rag.

Harry sits at the bar. “Firewhisky, please. A double,” he corrects.

The man grunts, pours, and pushes the glass at him, for which Harry pays too much. He hardly tastes it, drinking it in three long sips with pauses for breath in between.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Another?” The man’s voice is like a meat grinder.

Harry shakes his head no. Then he rises, making his way to the stairs.

They’re drafty, like windows have been left open somewhere. The tattered lace curtains that cover the window at the landing flutter as he passes.

Down the first hallway, at a door with the number ‘13’ on it, he stops. The whisky feels like a Lumos inside of him, like Felix Felicis. It makes his heart beat too hard, almost violently fast. His hand doesn’t hover at this doorknob. He opens it, stepping into the dark, and closing the door behind him.

“Did anyone see you?” 

Harry squints, his eyes trying to adjust. “No.” 

Malfoy steps from the deepest shadows. He’s still in the stupid leather, hair shining with moonlight. No smirk now. Just the same intensity in his gaze that Harry feels through his whole body. Malfoy blinks. And Harry walks determinedly up to him, makes fists in his jacket, and slants his mouth over Malfoy’s.

Malfoy meets him, lips opening, no preamble. Harry tastes him and groans. Malfoy grabs Harry’s hair and shoves his tongue into his mouth. Harry walks him backward until Malfoy’s back hits the wall, his teeth sinking into Harry’s lip.

“Fuck,” hisses Harry.

Malfoy does it again, deliberately, lashes touching his cheeks in a soft blink as he bites down on the place he’s already broken skin. Harry tastes his own blood. Malfoy parts his lips—like a dare, like begging—and Harry is only too eager to slip his tongue between, deep and hot, so hungry he hurts. 

He hurries to get Malfoy’s trousers open while Malfoy shucks the jacket, tossing it to the floor. Harry runs his hands underneath the white t-shirt he reveals. Malfoy’s not just warm; he’s hot to the touch. Groaning, Harry dips down and follows the path of his hands with his open mouth. Skin, warm salt of sweat, Malfoy’s rapid heartbeat on Harry’s lips as Harry shoves the shirt up under his arms—and Malfoy lets him.

Harry gets his own jacket off, his jumper. Malfoy’s eyes stay on him, his lids heavy, lust in every breath from his lungs.

Harry rips Malfoy’s trousers down to his thighs and sinks to the floor in front of him.

Malfoy gasps, his cock falling out. Harry takes it in his fist, pumps it a few times. He’d like it to seem practical, a means to an end. But his fingers love the hard silk of it, the slide, the girth filling the space he makes for it to push through. Malfoy makes a high sound, cut off, his face scrunched like it’s painful. His nails make a sound against the plaster of the wall.

Harry aims Malfoy’s prick into his mouth.

Malfoy’s hips judder, and he groans, a heartfelt thing that seems so anathema to him it makes Harry’s blood pound harder through his body. He cups Malfoy’s cock with his tongue, glancing up at his face, the way his lips are open and slick, how his throat flexes when he swallows hard. Harry presses down, moves on it, holding Malfoy’s hips in place.

“I hate you,” Malfoy breathes.

Harry pulls off to flutter his tongue under the crown—slick, teasing, his own dick throbbing for it—and then he dips mercilessly into Malfoy’s slit. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Malfoy chants. He makes a tight fist in the hair at the top of Harry’s head.

Harry goes down on it, furious with the need to do this. Tears come to his eyes. Malfoy tastes so fucking good. It’s awful how much he wants this.

“I’m going to come down your throat, Potter.” A breathless angry thing, his name like that.

“No, you’re not,” Harry says once he sucks off. Then he stands up, flips Malfoy around, and murmurs a lubrication charm.

“Ohhh,” Malfoy moans, like he wishes he could keep it inside. His hands brace, palms on the wall.

Harry parts the globes of his arse, half massage, half voyeuristic compulsion. Malfoy’s shiny entrance clenches.

“Are you just going to stare at it, or are you going to fuck it?” Malfoy’s haughty, bitten-off sneer.

Harry opens his jeans, gets his cock out, and rubs the head against that sweet, soft place. Malfoy’s forehead drops to the wall. His body goes still, rigid.

“Relax,” Harry murmurs against the back of his neck. And then, because he remains stubbornly tense, “Malfoy...”

He growls, but shivers erupt up his neck from Harry’s breath there. Harry, forgetting himself, presses an open-mouthed kiss over the knob his spine makes. That place, it bloody calls to him. It’s not like he can help it. Malfoy makes a small sound and turns his head away, giving Harry his neck. Harry moves to kiss him where he’s all but asked.

“That’s it,” Harry whispers against him when he feels Malfoy’s body go lax, the head of his cock nudging, making little circles, then slipping in.

Malfoy mewls, lifts his head from the wall and breathes hard as Harry slowly sheathes himself inside. Merlin, it’s been too long. Weeks. Over the summer, his body learned to expect this, to almost need it. More than a few days is too long. Weeks is torture. God, how stupid he’s been, to get addicted to this, to _Malfoy_.

Not that that bears thinking about now. He’s balls deep finally, and Malfoy is making those demanding little ‘fuck me’ noises. Harry holds his hips, draws out, watching himself emerge, and then drives back inside with a soft grunt.

Once Malfoy is loose enough for him to establish a good rhythm, Harry releases his tight grip on Malfoy’s skinny hips. He runs his hands up his half-bare back, ripping the t-shirt off finally, displacing Malfoy’s hands on the wall temporarily. 

Then it’s his chest to Malfoy’s back, hot skin pressed tight. He holds Malfoy’s armpits, hips whipping. At Malfoy’s, “God… I need to come. Make me come,” Harry doesn’t. 

He slides his hands up Malfoy’s raised arms instead, his fingers fitting between the spaces in Malfoy’s, closing. He grinds his cock deep inside. “From this,” he says. “Come like this.”

Harry’s so deep, it’s hardly fucking anymore. Malfoy’s body collides gently with the wall, his breath getting tighter and tighter. He’s trying. And the fact of his trying has Harry’s balls drawing up. “Like this,” he whispers, his voice shaking, hands holding tight to Malfoy’s, pinning him. He flexes his hips, fucking Malfoy against the wall, and Malfoy tightens up and comes, shivering in that next moment as it happens without a touch on his cock besides the wall itself.

“Oh Christ,” Harry breathes, as Malfoy’s arse grips him. He licks the back of Malfoy’s neck. And then Malfoy’s turning his head, offering his mouth. Harry takes it, his tongue deep inside on a groan as he comes—and comes and comes and comes, filling Malfoy with it, pushing inside, feeling it leak out while still he fucks him.

Malfoy hums into the kiss, Harry’s hands sliding down his arms, landing again on his hips. It lasts a moment too long as Harry’s lips leave Malfoy’s.

“I’ve been waiting here an hour, you fucker,” Malfoy says, out of breath.

Harry pulls gently out of him and then yanks up his jeans. “Sorry, Ron wouldn’t leave.”

Malfoy scoffs. “To bang Granger? He really loves you, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah. He does. And for Merlin’s sake don’t say ‘bang’ and Hermione’s name in the same sentence ever again.”

Malfoy turns, his softened prick dangling beautifully between his legs. Anyone else would look laughable, Harry thinks. Malfoy looks like the offspring of a Greek god.

“I paid for this room,” Malfoy says, stepping closer again. He yanks on Harry’s jeans and pants, sending them to his ankles. “We’re not finished yet, Potter.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s late, and they haven’t turned on any lights, but there’s a moon. Malfoy’s skin gleams silver under its light. He’s naked. They both are. They’re sharing the bed, lying on their sides, facing each other.

Ten minutes earlier, Malfoy was riding Harry’s cock, his head thrown back, arse pounding down hard. He came on Harry’s chest, and Harry came inside him, again.

It’s still a little unreal, even though they started fucking only a month after the war ended. Harry couldn’t tell you how or why they started, only that it happened. That one day, returning Malfoy’s wand to him, he saw that stupid, arrogant look in his eye and it was either fight him or… this. To his shock, when he gripped Malfoy hard and breathed in his face, Malfoy chose this, and kissed Harry’s lips raw.

It would have been just the once. Maybe. Except that a week later Harry saw Malfoy coming out of the office of the Mind Healer next door to his own, eyes red and puffy, chin jutting out at seeing Harry there. They’d passed each other quickly, without words. But that night, Malfoy had shown up on the pavement outside Grimmauld, just wandering back and forth—before Harry opened the wards and the door to him, and pulled him roughly inside.

It’s not something that should have happened. Certainly not something that should keep happening. But it does. Because neither of them stops it. Because both of them seek it out in the other. They pretend they have no choice. It’s so much simpler that way.

“What?” Malfoy asks, studying Harry’s face.

“Mm. Nothing. Just thinking we should get back soon.”

Harry hasn’t told his Mind Healer about shagging Malfoy. He wonders if Malfoy’s told his. Not likely, Harry thinks. Which tells him plenty about the viability of what they’re doing. If they could keep it secret from each other, they probably would.

Malfoy scoots closer, his knee between Harry’s, his hand encircling Harry’s cock.

“Again?” Harry asks, a crooked smile pulling at his lips.

Malfoy looks down at the cock swelling as he strokes it, then back up at Harry. “You tell me.” Then, “If you don’t want to, I’ll just wank myself off to your chocolate frog card.”

Harry cannot, absolutely can _not_ , suppress a mad bubble of laughter at that.

Just as he can’t not notice that Malfoy’s getting hard again too, just from touching him.

Harry moves into his body, takes a firm grip on him as well. Malfoy gasps. 

“One more,” says Harry.

And already thrusting his hips into it, Malfoy breathes, “Just one more.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s nearly four in the morning when they finally emerge. Malfoy’s motorbike is parked around back, and Harry follows him to it, watching him glove up for the short ride back to the school.

“I can’t believe you bought that thing. I mean, you don’t just buy the first thing you find in the first Muggle magazine you ever look through.” Then, “Well, I guess _you_ do.”

“I like shiny things,” Malfoy says, but with a weird little smile pulling softly at one corner of his lips.

Harry shakes his head to try to dislodge the buzzing that’s suddenly making him lightheaded. “I don’t even want to know where you learned to ride it.” He’s lying. He’s dying to know. All he knows is that Malfoy didn’t come to _him_. The little burr of annoyance at that sits stubbornly behind his sternum. Even though they’re not on those sorts of intimate terms, despite the sex.

Malfoy doesn’t give him anything, zipping up his jacket and avoiding Harry’s eyes.

Harry, for no good reason, decides to stick his foot in it further by saying, “You know we’ll have to tell them eventually.” He’s not sure what makes him say it. The burr becomes a strange ache. Something he can usually ignore.

“Like hell we will,” Malfoy says flippantly, though there’s that telling tic at his jaw which Harry has somehow learned to look for in order to reinterpret whatever’s just come out of Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy flings a leg over his bike.

“We can’t just hare off to a dodgy inn whenever we want to…”

“Fuck each other?” Malfoy replies. Merlin, his arse in that seat... “There are a million little hidden places in that castle, Potter.” His smirk isn’t mean now; it glimmers, a bit shy. “And you’re going to want me in all of them.” 

Harry growls, stepping close enough to hold a handle bar and crowd into Malfoy’s body, making Malfoy crane his neck up to keep looking at him. “I’m going to _have_ you in all of them.” 

Malfoy smiles. The git _smiles_. It’s something that’s started happening more recently, replacing the wary looks of mistrust, those sparse moments when something like pain seems to cloud him over before he covers with that chin-jutting thing. Then there’s the haughty arrogance, which Harry’s learned is about half bullshit. 

Harry wants to kick himself now for licking his lips at the sight of that smile… for casting his gaze down Malfoy’s body, the way he straddles the bike, and remembering Malfoy straddling _him_ , slamming himself down on Harry’s cock, a relative of that very smile on his moonlit face.

Harry leans in. He gives it enough time that Malfoy could stop it. Instead, Malfoy’s lips soften, his lashes almost, but not quite, closing. He lets Harry kiss him, long, slow, so deep and so wet. So open. Malfoy makes a small sound into it, and he’s more open than Harry’s ever known him to be. 

Their lips part as slowly as they came together, Malfoy’s chin still lifted, like he might want another kiss, might invite it. Harry steps back, watching Malfoy swallow. His own breath has gone funny, too shallow.

Malfoy starts the engine. And if Harry were only a little harder, he might have come from it.

“You could ride back with me,” Malfoy says, cheeks stained cherry-pit red, gaze artfully averted as he rechecks the fit of his gloves. 

Harry’s heart does a bit of a lurch. _His front pressed, again, to Malfoy’s back… their bodies fitting close._ He clears his throat. “It’s almost morning. Someone might be awake.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Another time then. Somewhere more private.” Then he smirks. “I’m going to get you on this with me someday.”

Harry frowns. “You know, I have my own motorbike.”

“Potter,” says Malfoy with gentle derision, the eyebrow going up. “It has a side-car.”

Harry bites back a smile… fights the urge to tug him close and have him all over again. Merlin’s balls, he’s so fucked. “See you back at the castle, arsehole.”

Malfoy gives him a saucy wink that, predictably, stiffens Harry’s cock.

Harry just stands there, his limbs feeling useless, like bludger bats sewn onto his body, dangling stupidly as the bike lurches forward.

“Draco!”

At first, Harry thinks his shout gets lost under the rumble of the engine. There’s a split second in which he knows either Malfoy didn’t hear him, or he did but he’s going to pretend he didn’t. Harry’s face blazes hot at the name he shouted. Stupid, stupid plonker. His jaw goes tight, his hands making fists. 

But then the bike swerves a bit, skidding awkwardly to a new stop. Malfoy looks over his shoulder at him. And Harry’s breath stops.

“I…” Harry begins. He swallows. “You, er, you forgot your Protego.”

“Oh,” says Malfoy, about to put the kickstand down and draw his wand.

“I’ve got it,” Harry says, drawing his own. He watches the dull wariness in Malfoy’s eyes turn soft as he casts, the spell floating down over him like silk.

“Now you can crash into as many trees as you like on the way back,” Harry says.

“Hilarious, Potter.”

The rumble of the bike echoes between the buildings as they look at each other. Malfoy appears mostly composed, his face all but impassive. It’s only the tiniest of details that betray a tension, the sense that they’re on some precipice, neither wanting to step forward or back. Harry commands his heart to stop pounding so bloody hard. 

When looking at Malfoy becomes uncomfortable (and to be truthful it’s never comfortable, always fraught with some high emotion, some question, a desire that leaves Harry mute and frustrated), Harry drops his gaze and makes a show of holstering his wand.

Malfoy’s voice stops him. “Why don’t you…?”

Harry looks up, waiting. His whole body waits.

Malfoy clears his throat, the bike under him spluttering happily. “Put a Protego on yourself and get on.”

“Yeah?” Harry checks. Though he doesn’t want to check. He doesn’t want to give Malfoy the opportunity to change his mind.

Malfoy looks like he just might, so Harry whips a quick Protego on and walks, then jogs a bit, towards the bike. As he gets closer, a small sneak of a smile finds its way to Malfoy’s lips. He scoots forward a touch, and the motion highlights the fit of his trousers over his arse. Good Merlin.

Harry mounts the bike, his body right up against Malfoy’s, chest to crotch. The bike purrs beneath them, but Harry thinks Malfoy might still hear his heart pounding if he’s paying any attention. Surely he feels it, strong and excited, against his back.

“Ready?” Malfoy calls to him.

“Are you?”

Malfoy’s only answer is to rev the engine and take off so suddenly that Harry has to grip his body tightly and hang on or tumble gracelessly off the back. The gears change as they shoot down the lane, again as they near the woods. The headlight shines into the darkness, not yet dawn, and he and Malfoy careen around corners, their bodies sliding together. Harry thinks he hears Malfoy laugh once, though it can’t be. It has to be a trick of sound, like bird calls through the trees, like shouting into a ravine.

Harry holds tight to him as they ride, as the trees part and the highest turrets of the castle come into view, backlit by the first blush of pink in the sky. He rests his chin on Malfoy’s shoulder, the leather soft and fragrant. He practises closing his eyes. Hopelessly, Harry begins to smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Please I beg of you, go see Capitu's fucking STELLAR aesthetic that she made for this story [HERE](https://lqtraintracks.tumblr.com/post/190017594907/shiny-things-slightly-damaged)


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